


try not to hate the light

by evewithanapple



Category: Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, LLF Comment Project, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 21:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13796952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: The point is, David doesn’t have his gang anymore. No gang, no powers – all he really has left is them.And god, how he hates them for it.(Alternate title: Lucy Emerson's Home For Wayward Ex-Vampires)





	try not to hate the light

**Author's Note:**

> Many million thanks to skazka for beta reading this for me!

“I’m coming out now,” Michael announces to his closed bedroom door. “And if I step out onto that landing and one of you little shits throws a cross at me or squirts me with holy water, I’m gonna be-” He pauses for emphasis. “- _pissed_.”

There’s no reply besides a faint scuffling noise, which Mike assumes is Sam and his friends hastily hiding their water guns and crucifixes. One of them found an order form for vampire-hunting kits in the back of one of their comic books, and they’ve been insufferable ever since. Well, the Frog kids have always been insufferable, but Sammy’s picked up on far too many of their mannerisms lately. He’d put a stop to it, if he didn’t have more important things to worry about.

He opens the door and steps out. Sure enough, Sam, Alan, and Edgar are all crowded into the corner of the landing. There are no squirt guns in sight, but one of the brothers – Michael can never tell them apart – is still sporting a huge, garish crucifix around his neck. He clutches at it as Michael walks past, and Mike snorts. “That’s not going to do anything, dumbass.” As he starts down the stairs, he throws back over his shoulder, “Don’t you and your weird friends have any other place to hang out besides outside my room?”

“My weird friends?” Sam repeats, outraged. “ _My_ weird friends?” His shout follows Mike down the stairs and into the kitchen.

The kitchen windows are open, and a faint breeze is rustling the curtains. The air conditioning’s been broken all month – Grandpa keeps saying he’s going to fix it, then abandoning the project in favour of whatever he’s tinkering with in his workshop – and even now, in early September, it’s still sweltering. The breeze also picks up the hem of Star’s crinkly rayon skirt as she stands at the stove, swishing the fabric around her bare ankles. She smiles over her shoulder at him as he comes in. “Morning, Mike.”

“Morning.” He takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Hi, David.”

There are no shadows in their kitchen, but that doesn’t mean that David hasn’t done his level best to find one. He’s glowering from next to the pantry. Mike doesn’t bother asking what he’s annoyed about; glowering is David’s permanent state of being, these days. He addresses himself to Star, instead. “Pancakes for breakfast?”

“Of course.” With an elegant flick of her wrist, she flips the pancake into the air where it hangs for a brief second before landing back in the pan with a sizzle. It’s already an appetizing golden-brown, and the sight makes Mike’s stomach rumble. “Looks done to me.”

Star rolls her eyes at him, but she slides the pancake off her spatula and onto a plate. “Come and get it, then.” She looks past him, and her smile slips a bit, replaced by a wary look in her eye. It’s the kind of look someone might give to a half-rabid stray dog. “David, you should have breakfast too.”

He only grunts in response. On closer inspection, Mike realizes that David’s holding a carton of orange juice, taking intermittent swigs from it even though Mike _and_ his mom have both asked him not to drink straight out of the carton. There’s no point, really; David never listens to anyone. Of them all, Star has the most luck talking him into doing what she wants, but even then, she has to manipulate him into thinking it was his idea in the first place. So he doesn’t bother telling him to put the carton down, just holds out a glass. “Mind if I have some of that?”

David’s eyes gleam at that, and Mike’s heart sinks. Stupid of him, to ask David for something; David can never give in to anyone’s request without turning it into some kind of power play. He holds the carton out in front of him. “Why don’t you come and get it?”

Star bites her lip, looking between the two of them. Mike bites the inside of his cheek, torn between the urge to scoff and the impulse to pat David on the head like a little kid. It’s pretty pathetic, the former would-be vampire overlord of Santa Carla on a power trip over orange juice, but he doesn’t point that out, because he knows David’s mood would turn ugly – uglier – as a result. So he comes as he’s called, still holding the glass out in front of him like a peace offering. David holds the carton higher, tipping it forward. “Open up.”

Mike doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that Star’s still watching them, teeth worrying at her lower lip. “This is stupid,” he says, “you’re going to spill it.”

David tips the carton further forward, and juice starts to bead at the opening. Michael reaches out and grabs his wrist, on instinct. It’s the wrong thing to do, but he’s not overly concerned. “Cut it out,” he says.

David scowls at him, but there’s nothing he can do: Mike can easily trap and hold his wrist in place. If this had happened before, Mike knows, this is when David’s face would have grown hard and ridged, his eyes yellow, his teeth pointed. He would have snapped Mike’s wrist like a popsicle stick, just because he could. Because being the strongest man in the room made him feel good – and as long as Max was nowhere in sight, he could pretend he was the strongest man in town. But those days are over, and now they’re just two normal teenage boys wrestling over a carton of juice. And Mike’s winning. That, he knows, is what makes David the angriest.

There’s a clattering of footsteps on the stairs, and Mike releases David’s wrist and looks over just as Sam, Alan, and Edgar come bouncing into the room. They all stop in the doorway, piling up on each other like a cartoon, mouths agape as they take in the scene. The one with the cross takes it off and brandishes it. David loses interest in Mike almost immediately, practically lighting up as he takes in his new targets. He saunters over, coat swishing behind him, and waggles his fingers in front of the cross. “Do I look scared to you?”

“Y-you should be,” the other one stutters. David laughs at him, bringing the carton to his mouth for another swig. He shakes out his hair, teeth bared. He’s putting on a show for them, Michael thinks, and they’re too dumb to realize it. They’re actually _scared_ , not of David’s bad temper, but of the (baseless) idea that he could still rip their throats out.

“Mom told you not to do that,” Sam says. His brother’s the bravest of the three by far, not that that means much. David looks at him, flat-eyed, and he keeps going. “You’re going to give the rest of us some nasty vampire disease if you keep that up. I don’t want your germs.”

David drains the last of the orange juice and tosses the empty carton at the three boys. They don’t scatter, but Mike definitely sees all three of them flinch. Then he swoops around and ducks under the side door, out into the garden and then the road. Mike hears the distant rumble of a motorcycle, and watches as David’s cloud of dust vanishes into the distance.

“We were having a nice breakfast,” Star says to no one in particular.

 

* * *

 

 

When the dust – Max’s dust, to be specific - had first settled it had taken a few minutes for the significance to dawn on them. Then the sun had spilled through the windows, and David and his gang had hissed, pulling back – and not burning. They’d turned in circles, confused, trying to figure out why the sunlight didn’t burn them, why none of them could take to the air any longer, why their teeth were blunt and short. Then David’s gaze had fallen on what remained of Max, and he’d _howled_. It had been a noise unlike anything Mike had ever heard, pure animalistic grief and rage, ringing in his eardrums like the trumpet at Judgement Day. Mom, Sam, and Grandpa had all hit the floor, covering their ears. Star had grabbed Laddie and pushed him behind the sofa, trying to cover him with her body. For his part, Mike had been genuinely frightened, more so than he’d been at any point since arriving in Santa Carla. This new David had no special powers or preternatural strength, and he couldn’t do anything that your average boy with a bad temper and a pair of fists couldn’t do – but in that moment, he’d had nothing left to lose, and Mike didn’t know how many people he’d want to bring down with him.

When the long howl had ended, David and the others had dived through the remains of the front window and vanished. For days. No one had been able to figure out where they’d gone or when they’d be back. David had started to appear around the house again after a few weeks, silent and brooding, saying nothing of the others or where they’d gone. Mike hasn’t asked. As far as he knows, Star hasn’t either. Maybe they’ve gone back to their families, if they still have them. Maybe they hitched a ride to San Francisco, or Los Angeles, or whatever big city they think they can get lost in next. Maybe they all threw themselves off the cliff the morning after Max died, smashing themselves on the rocks below. It doesn’t matter much. The point is, David doesn’t have his gang anymore. No gang, no powers – all he really has left is them.

And god, how he hates them for it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Michael,” his mom says to him one day, “you are being _safe_ , aren’t you?”

Mike has a very, very bad feeling about where this conversation is headed. He replies anyway, because he’s an idiot. “Safe how?”

“Well, you know.” His mother’s brow furrows when she looks at him. “I don’t mind having Star in the house. She’s a nice girl, and I do like having her around. I just want to be sure the two of you are being sensible, Mike. I’m sure you’d rather not talk about these things with your mother, but there are infections that can be transmitted sexually if you’re not protecting yourselves-”

Yep, this is exactly as bad as he thought it was going to be. “Mom,” he says. “Star and I aren’t – it’s not-“ He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “We’re being safe. I promise.”

“If you’re sure,” she says. She still sounds dubious. “You know you can always come to me, if you have any questions.” And with that final, hideously embarrassing parting shot, she leaves.

Mom _does_ seem to have taken to Star, it’s true. Star had initially tried to slip away the day after they killed Max, when they were still sifting through the wreckage of their front room, taking Laddie with her. But Mom had noticed and asked her if she needed a ride to her parents’ house, and when Star had haltingly confessed that she didn’t _have_ parents, as such, Mom had insisted she stay. They didn’t have a spare room, so she put Laddie in with Sam (Sam protested, but it ended up not mattering; Mom had stumbled across Laddie’s missing poster a few days later, and he’d quickly been reunited with his family in Sacramento) and reluctantly agreed to let Star sleep in Michael’s room. Mike guessed that after your kid has started a whole secret, vampire-killing life, forbidding him from having a girl in his bedroom seems kind of pointless. She did, at least, insist on setting up a cot for Star to sleep on; she almost invariably ends up climbing into his bed anyway, but at least Mom tried.

“How long ago was it?” he asks her once as they lie in bed together, the breeze from the fan ruffling both their hair. “When you came to Santa Carla? How old were you?” Star still looks like she’s his age, but of course, so does David. And Max looked like a harmless small business owner. Looks can be deceiving around here.

“It was . . .” She purses her lips, forehead crinkling. “Fifteen years ago, I think. No, seventeen.” She nods. “Nineteen seventy-one. I was sixteen.”

He nods against her. “So who named you Star? You, or your parents?”

“Me.” She rolls over in his arms so that she’s tucked under his chin. “My parents named me . . .” She stops. Frowns. “Sharon, I think? Maybe Sandra.” She shrugs. “I didn’t like it, so I just started calling myself Star as soon as I got off the bus. No one ever asked.” She blinks up at him, long eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. “Not before you.”

Sometimes Mom puts on her old cassette tapes, The Doors and Van Morrison and Creedence Clearwater, and sings along with them while she’s cooking in the kitchen. Michael and Sam both groan in horror and cover their ears whenever she does it, but Star likes to sing along too. Maybe that’s why Mom likes her so much.

“And after that?” he asks. “When did you meet David?”

She rests her elbow on his chest, propping herself up so that she can look him in the eye. “That summer,” she says. “You should have seen him back then; he was . . . “ She falls silent for a moment, lost in memory. “The same,” she says finally. “But different. He still had the long hair, but it wasn’t spiky. His face was . . . softer.” She chuckles. “Not by much, though. He was still dangerous. He just seemed kinder to me back then. Maybe that was just an act.”

Mike thinks it probably was. He can’t imagine a David before what he was now: a David with a soft side, a David who could be tender and kind and welcoming to a girl just off the bus from flyover country. The David he’d met, the David he’s always known – even though _always_ is only comprised of a few months – is all sharp corners and razorblade edges, the spark in the air before a storm and the pregnant pause before someone throws the first punch. Star had met the David she’d wanted to meet, back when she needed it more than anything else. Maybe Michael had done the same.

“And David?” he asks, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. “Where did he come from? When?”

“When?” Star frowns. “God, I don’t know. He never said. I don’t even know if he remembers.” She shrugs, hair sliding over her shoulder. “Does it matter now?”

Michael doesn’t answer. Michael doesn’t _have_ an answer. Probably it should be “no;” whatever David once was, there’s no lingering traces of humanity in what he is now. Even now that he _is_ a human, he still moves like a wild animal, a predator. If he does retain any memories of the David-that-was, he almost certainly wouldn’t appreciate having anyone else poking around in them. He doesn’t appreciate much. When they met, part of Mike envied that, the sense of independence; of not being beholden to anyone. Now he just thinks it’s kind of sad. How long do you have to spend alone before you stop relying on other people? How long before it becomes a cornerstone of your identity? How long before you start to resent anyone foolish enough to offer help, because their offer tugs at the one Jenga block that could bring you crumbling down?

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Mike sees David, he’s standing in the back garden, staring silently down at Grandpa’s verbena beds.

“Aren’t you hot in that coat?” he asks. David still wears his black duster everywhere he goes, even though it’s noon and the sun is shining directly overhead. Mike can feel sweat beading under his arms and on the back of his neck, and he’s just in a t-shirt and jeans. David still has a black shirt and pants on underneath the duster, not to mention the heavy black boots on his feet. In the dark, under the carnival lights, he’d looked mysterious. In the midday sun, he looks a little ridiculous. But Michael’s not going to point that out.

David’s mouth twists. “Are you _concerned_?” Like always, he spits the words out as if they taste bad.

Mike shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “Just seems too warm for a coat, that’s all.”

David doesn’t answer, but after a few moments, he rolls his shoulders backwards and lets the coat puddle on the ground. The shirt he’s got on underneath has the sleeves torn off, and it’s hard for Michael not to gape at the sight of David’s bare arms. He’s seen pale skin before, but David is practically translucent: he can see blue veins snaking up and down his arms, the sharp edges of his collarbones, the places that would sport scars or stretch marks if David had grown like a normal person at any point in living memory. He’s built lean, but not skinny – like a runner or a gymnast. It’s beautiful, but eerie, somehow inhuman even though human is all he is.

That’s starting to change a little, though: Mike can see a faint pink tinge to David’s skin, possibly the beginnings of a sunburn. How bad can a former vampire burn, he wonders? David won’t explode into flame if he walks out into daylight, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to UV rays. Or maybe it’s just blood pumping for the first time in unknown decades, turning David into something less otherworldly than what he was. Turning him into something normal.

 No wonder he’s so angry.

He turns and looks over his shoulder, smirking at Michael. “See something you like?” he says. One hand rises to card through his hair, as pale and spiky as ever. Even his eyes are pale, like blue marbles or ice chips. Mike can’t help but feel like they’ve done something wrong, something unnatural: David was never meant to live in the sunlight. If Michael touched him now, would he still be cold? Or would be able to feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath his hand, the heat expanding outward from his core, the twitch and ripple of his muscles as they contract under his touch? Would he welcome the contact, or spurn it? Where did this sudden tactile urge come from, anyway?

“Just waiting to see if you catch on fire,” he says, twisting his mouth into a smirk. It feels safer that way. David understands scorn better than sympathy, and he likes it better, too. And part of Michael – the part that wants to put his hands on David and see how it would feel – is clamouring to push, to provoke, to dare. To ride right up to the edge of the cliff. To find out what the tipping point is that would carry them both over.

“Fuck you,” David says. Once, Michael might have taken him seriously, but he knows better now. That’s not irritation in his voice; it’s relief. This is his territory. It’s where he’s most comfortable.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Mike says. “What are you hanging around here for, anyway? Maybe you see something _you_ like.” It’s a new kind of adrenaline rush, a different sort of danger. Like taking his hands off the handlebars of his bike and seeing how far he can go before falling. Maybe he won’t like the answer when he finds it, maybe he’s too chicken to just come out and ask – but it’s better than wondering in silence.

David snaps at him, like an angry dog. Funny, Michael thinks, because David’s always reminded him of a cat – aloof, preening, always aware that’s he’s performing for an audience. If David fell, Mike is sure, he’d pick himself up and pretend he meant to do it all along. Maybe he did. He snaps, and he rushes, suddenly inches away from Mike’s face. His breath is hot and heaving, his teeth snapping again, eyes narrowed – but still blue, still human. Forever human. Vulnerable.

Mike looks him straight in the eyes. “Bite me,” he says.

And god help them, David looks like he’s actually considering it. _Go on_ , Mike goads silently, _do it_. A part of him is sick with the cruelty of it, taunting David with what he had and lost and never will have again – but why worry about David’s feelings? Why care? Some people, he knows, would call that sissy- queer, even. His mother would say he was being empathetic. Star would say nothing at all, just look at him with her big, liquid eyes and make him feel about three inches tall with only her expression. If David hurt any of them, it was Star, and she still-

Loves him?

Who knows? Mike’s never asked.

David doesn’t bite him. Instead, he snarls and shoves Mike to the side, stomping past him and into the house. Mike leans back against the wall, letting his head loll against the brickwork, and feels the sun beat down on his head. Feels hot. Feels on fire, almost.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey Mike,” Sam says, “what’s a good word for ‘powerful?’”

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, homework spread out in front of him. English homework; school only started three weeks ago, and his teacher’s already talking about advanced placement. Mike can’t write an essay to save his life, but he’s still proud of his baby brother. He figures they might as well have at least one smart one in the family. Star is sitting at the other end of the table, humming to herself as she digs her fingers deep into the dirt of potted plants. And David’s there too, sprawled out across the couch in the living room. They hadn’t bothered to rebuild the wall dividing the kitchen and living room when they’d fixed up the house, so Mike can see David and David can see him. He’s got his eyes closed, pretending like he’s asleep, but Mike is well aware that he’s listening to every word they say.

“Uh,” he says. “Strong?” He hears a snort from the living room, and deliberately does not turn around to look.

Sam shakes his head dejectedly. “no,” he says. “That won’t work.” He’s staring down at the sheet of paper in front of him like it killed his dog – which it definitely did not, because Nanook is sprawled across the floor at his feet. “Star? What do you think?”

Star makes a thoughtful noise. Black dirt is caked under each of her fingernails, and there’s a smear of it across her cheek. “What’s the context?”

“It’s this Macbeth essay.” Sam scrubs his eraser across the page, then sweeps the crumbs away with his hand. “My teacher said we could write about Lady Macbeth, the witches, or Duncan, and I picked Lady Macbeth, but I dunno what she wants me to say.”

“Hmm.” Star pushes the pot in front of her aside. “If you’re describing her, how about ‘regal?’”

Sam shakes his head again. “It’s supposed to be the bad kind of powerful.”

“Sexy,” David calls from the living room. Star rolls her eyes and goes back to the potted plants. Michael bites down on a grin.

“Gross,” Sam says. “Stay out of my homework, you perv.”

While Sam fusses over his essay, Mike wanders over to the couch. “Didn’t know you read Shakespeare,” he says to David, who’s still got his eyes closed.

He cracks a lazy smile – smug, but not really malicious. “I’m a cultured man, Michael.”

“Right.” Mike sits on one of the arms of the couch, shoving David’s feet out of the way before he does it. “Did you even graduate high school?”

David cracks one eye at him. The look in it gives Mike a bad feeling: he thinks he might be skirting too close to the edge again, and he’d rather not do that while Star and Sammy are in the room. “Who wants to know?”

“Just wondered.” Mike watches David carefully as he blinks. Every day now, it seems like he’s growing softer around the edges, verging on human – but then somebody will say something that sets him off, and he’s like a lit stick of dynamite again. “Don’t know what things were like, back when you were – well, my age.”

David sits up. “I didn’t _go_ to school,” he says. “Didn’t want to. And if someone had tried to make me, I would’ve told them to go fuck themselves. So . . .”

Mike knows better than to push, but his curiosity is getting the better of him. This is the most he’s ever gotten out of David as far as his past goes, and he wants to know more. “Did anyone? Try to make you?”

He can feel the tension thickening the air now. David’s eyes are narrowed – almost imperceptibly, but Michael can still tell. “We had better things to worry about,” he says. “You know what that’s like, Michael? Really worrying about something?” He waves his hand vaguely at the surroundings. “We didn’t have a house like this, I’ll tell you that much. Didn’t have a fridge. Didn’t have a pantry. Didn’t have anything to put in them, even if we had.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” Mike tries to imagine a human tribe of lost boys, David and Marko and Dwayne and Paul huddled together counting pennies and scraping for something to eat. He can’t quite picture it. He tries to picture David like that, scrawny and hungry and afraid, and that image is even less clear. But he had been, once. He’d been human, really human – not whatever unholy mixture he is now, a human body with an ex-vampire’s brain.

“None of your goddamn business,” David says abruptly, and swings himself off the couch. Mike curses himself (he just _had_ to take it too far, hadn’t he?) and follows on David’s heels into the kitchen.

Sam looks up from his homework. “What do _you_ want?”

“Entertainment.” David flicks Sam’s eraser off the table and across the room with his finger. “Hey smartass, you written your ‘What I Did On My Summer Vacation’ paper yet? Bet your teacher’d love to read about you and your jerkoff friends trying to kill me.”

Sam stares at him, mouth hard and defiant. “You deserved it. And so did your maker.” He stands up. He barely reaches David’s chin. “I wish it had worked.”

“Sam, don’t-” Star starts to say, but before she or Mike can intervene, David’s grabbed Sam by his shirtfront and pulled him upwards so that his toes are scuffing frantically against the floor. “You wanna take another run at that?” he snarls, while Sam tries to squirm out of his grip. “Go ahead, take another shot without any of your vampire hunter toys. I could twist your head off like a bottlecap, just give me a reason- ”

“ _Hey_!” Lunging forward, Mike grabs David by both shoulders and jerks him back away from the table. David lets go of Sam, who falls back into his chair, red-faced and spluttering. “Cut it out!”

“Why is he even here?” Sam says. He’s pulling at the front of his shirt as though his collar is choking him. Star goes over and puts a hand on his shoulder, but he shakes it off. “Is it because nobody else wants him around? I don’t want him around either!”

“You be quiet,” Michael snaps at his brother. He’s told Sam to stay out of David’s way how many times, and he still has to mouth off like this? But underneath that is a deeper anger at himself: _he’s_ the one who got David riled up, and now he’s got to deal with the fallout. “And you-“ He turns back to David. “Hands off my brother. Or you’re out. I _can_ kick you out if I want, and I will if you keep this shit up.”

“Wanna try?” David’s eyes, those icy blue eyes, are practically shooting fire in Michael’s direction. “Go ahead. If you wanna fight, I can tell you right now which one of us is gonna win.”

“ _Stop_ it!” Star shouts. She’s positioned herself between them and Sam, hands balled into fists, eyes bright with furious tears. Nanook is at her side, teeth bared. “If you have to fight, then take it outside!”

It’s a tempting thought. Taking David out into the garden and throwing a punch, catching another one in return, letting all of this – whatever this is - burst and boil over. Tempting, except he remembers David’s face that night they met, when Mike punched him the first time; he’d been thrilled. He wants Mike to fight him. He wants the excuse.

He releases David’s shoulders. “Go upstairs,” he orders. David’s face darkens, and for a second Mike thinks he might just start a fight right here in the kitchen, but he smiles a crooked, horrible smile instead. “I’ll be waiting,” he says. And with that, he’s gone.

Mike turns back to Star and Sam, who are both still at the table. “I told you,” he says, “I _told_ you not to start shit with him. Was it really that hard?”

“He started it,” Sam says. His face is red, eyes shiny. “Hey, how come you can’t stand up for _me_ for a change? I’m your brother!”

“He _is_ standing up for you,” Star says quietly. She moves to put her hands on Sam’s shoulders again, and this time he doesn’t shrug her off. “But you have to be sensible, Sam. Don’t get into fights like this. When he baits you, just – “

“Ignore him?” Sam scowls. “You sound like a teacher.”

Star sighs, exchanging a look with Michael. Then she bends down to pick up the sheets of paper that have drifted to the floor. “Let’s get back to your homework, yeah? I’ll help you finish your essay.”

While Star is bent over the table with Sam, Mike stomps upstairs. He has a feeling he knows where David’s waiting for him, and it turns out he isn’t wrong – when he pushes open his bedroom door, there he is, examining the Top Gun poster Mike has tacked to his closet door. “Huh,” he says. As always, it’s not a neutral statement; Michael can hear the smirk in his voice.

Mike closes the door behind him. “Don’t ever lay a hand on my brother again.”

David turns slowly to face him. He’s lost the duster again, Mike notices; it’s been tossed carelessly across his bed, and David is wearing the same t-shirt with the sleeves torn off. Mike wonders if that’s the only shirt he has. “Or what?” he says. “What are you going to do about it, Michael?”

Michael levels him with a steady look. “What are _you_ going to do about it?” Because that’s the crux of the issue now, really; they’re evenly matched. In a fight, either one of them has a fifty-fifty shot at winning. If anything, Mike has the advantage; David still leans too heavily on power he no longer has, while Michael has no illusions about his own strength. But he still doesn’t think it would be an easy victory.

David advances on him, nostrils flaring. “I meant it,” he says. “I could still snap his neck. I could snap _your_ neck. I can still kill you now. Just because I can’t drink you dry doesn’t mean I’m helpless.”

Mike watches him coming, forcing himself to stay placid. “There’s space between being a killer and being helpless, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” David’s got him backed up against the wall, and Mike flashes back to that afternoon in the garden, the gunshot snap of his teeth. “But I’ve never been a fan of moderation.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mike says. David’s breath is hot on his face. His eyes are burning again. On impulse, Mike reaches out and wraps a hand around David’s bicep; the skin is hot under his hand. Hot like blood, he thinks. Hot like sunlight. Hot like the candle flames he used to whisk his finger through, too quick to burn, but still enough to impress whoever was watching.  This isn’t a quick touch, though. He’s not letting go this time.

David’s eyes narrow. Mike still holds his gaze. Slowly, David lifts one hand and puts it against the side of Mike’s neck, tightening his grip almost experimentally, thumb pressed underneath Mike’s chin. Mike doesn’t move. If this is a game of chicken, he’s not going to be the one to blink first. Whatever happens now was always going to happen. There’s no point putting it off.

David breaks his gaze first. He lowers his head until it’s level with Mike’s neck, his hair grazing Mike’s arm and shoulder. He closes in until his mouth is pressed to Michael’s pulse, teeth digging into his skin. It stings, and Mike tightens his hand on David’s arm. Is this meant to be a kiss, or a bite? Does David even know the difference? Does _he_?

He could fight. Throw David off and clock him for good measure, just for presuming that he could _do_ this, like Mike was just going to stand there and let him. But he doesn’t want to – doesn’t want to fight David in general, and doesn’t want to fight over this in particular. So instead of shoving him away, he brings his free hand up to the back of David’s head, sinking his fingers into his hair and holding him in place. He turns his head and mouths at David’s temple, tongue pressed to the salty warmth of his skin. He is human, he _is_ , they both are: only humans taste like this, sweat like this. Only humans have pulses like this, that quicken when someone touches them, when someone pulls their head up and maneuvers them into place so they can kiss them properly. David growls into his mouth, but it’s not an angry growl; Mike can tell the difference now. It’s hunger. It’s want. It’s demanding, but that’s okay. Mike can demand things too. He can, for instance, grab David’s waist with both hands and haul him forward until they’re flush against each other, denim rubbing on denim, rocking together and thumping against the wall with every movement. David growls again and slides against him, so that one of Mike’s legs is between his and he has leverage to thrust against him. Mike doesn’t let this go unchallenged; he grabs for the button on David’s jeans, fumbling in his urgency until he gets it open and the zipper down so that he can reach inside. David snarls this time, and Mike snarls back, wrapping his hand around David’s dick and pulling. He’s not being gentle, because he knows David doesn’t want that. Probably doesn’t know _how_ to want it, even if the desire is buried deep somewhere in his nature. So he’s rough with him, and David’s rough too, the way he pushes Mike back against the wall again and again. His breath is still hot, and they’re breathing each other now – human, human, _human_. Breath, blood, heartbeats. Hot, damp skin under his hands, a hot, wet tongue pressed to his, teeth closing down on his bottom lip and sucking so hard it nearly hurts. Mike reaches down and manages to get his own jeans open, then reaches for David’s hand: turnabout’s fair play, after all. There’s no expertise in what they’re doing, no rhythm: they just chase the sensations, faster and harder and needier until Mike says “ _fuck_ -“ into David’s mouth and comes all over his hand. David groans against him, turning his face against Mike’s neck again when he comes, and Mike lets him, head falling back against the wall with an audible thud. He wonders if anyone else in the house can hear them, and is struck with the sudden urge to laugh when he thinks of his mother. _Are we being safe? Well, no, but I think we’ve already exchanged all the bodily fluids we’ve got_. There are some things his mother doesn’t need to know.

David still isn’t looking at him; he’s got his chin tucked into Mike’s collarbone, shoulders still heaving with short, panting breaths. Mike grabs his face with one hand, turning his head until they’re eye-to-eye again. David’s eyes still burn, but Mike’s learning to read what’s behind the fire. David filters everything through anger; it’s how he’s survived this long. He can learn to survive a different way, though. It’s going to take time, but they have that.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “Don’t ever threaten Sam again.”

David shifts against him. Both their clothes are a mess, and getting messier whenever one of them moves. “Why not?” he asks. “Give me one good reason.”

Mike’s hand tightens on his jaw. “Because he’s family,” he says. “So’s Mom. So’s Star, and Grandpa. So if you want to stay here – you leave them alone.” _Family_ means something to David. Maybe not the same thing it means to Mike – and maybe that won’t ever change, no matter how much David acclimates to a mortal life. But if the word can preserve some fragile sense of peace in the house, Mike’s willing to take that.

David scans his face. Whatever he finds there, it seems to satisfy him. “Fine,” he says. “fine. Whatever you say.” His eyes gleam. “How about you, Mike? You want me to leave you alone?”

It startles Mike into a laugh. He slides his free hand back around David’s waist, which is still warm to the touch. David’s not a vampire anymore, but his magnetic pull hasn’t lessened anyway since the night Mike first saw him on the Santa Carla boardwalk. It’s a bigger thrill than the roller coaster, a rush that runs higher than any drug he’s ever tried, faster than the fastest motorcycle. He doesn’t ever want it to stop.

“Fuck no,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

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